Page 7 of Hot to Trot

She shrugged. ‘’You got the two tickets in, didn’t you? The ones I deserved for being ….what did you call me? Trouble?”

He winced. "I shouldn't have lost my cool. It was unprofessional. I'm sorry."

She averted her eyes to the large magnolia tree that squatted in the yard between the inn and the street. "No problem. I’m not easy to deal with. Everyone knows it. You aren’t wrong.”

Silence descended on the porch. He thought he heard crickets.

"I'm sure you're not difficult to everyone. Some guys appreciate difficult women. They are a taste.”

What was wrong with him. Striking matches and letting them burn to his fingertips. Sweet Jesus, he’d just about implied he wanted a taste of her.

Not a lie.

Amusement twitched at her mouth and her gaze caught his. Her eyes weren't brown like her sister's. More of a hazel with flecks of gold and green. They looked like the faux granite on his kitchen counter. Mesmerizingly gorgeous. Of course, he couldn't see them from where he stood, but he remembered from earlier. "You're being nice to me."

He shrugged. "Not really, but I sense you need someone to give you a break today."

“Really? This from the guy who gave me not one but two tickets a mere-" she glanced at the red leather watch on her arm "-forty minutes ago?”

He glanced through the glass in the oval door. The parlor looked to be a crush of people, talking with their hands, sipping punch. It looked uncomfortable. He moved toward Scarlet. "Again, just doing-"

“-your job. Yeah, got it," she muttered, not moving from her spot on the swing.

"So, are you in time-out or something?"

At that, she laughed. It sounded like tinkling bells and his groin tightened. “Something like that."

He gestured toward the rocker in front of the swing. "Mind if I sit?"

"It's a free country."

"Not really, if you think about it," he replied, sinking into the flowered cushion of the rocker. "We have some freedoms, sure. But we are also bound by the law.”

She jerked her gaze to his. "You're a strange bird.”

“I think I'd rather you call me anything else but strange.” Those words escaped before he could catch them, exposing his Achilles heel. Hadn’t he'd heard nothing but the same from his own mother every day of his life? Along with his father. And nanny. And tutors. The list went go on and on.

A strange little duck.

She lifted her eyebrows and a shoulder, like she understood. Maybe she did. Again, something twitched inside him. Not necessarily the earlier desire, but something. He needed to get himself off the porch, shake a few hands with the locals, and choke down some wedding cake. He didn't need to tempt himself with the woman in front of him.

Yet, he didn't move.

"So just to be clear, strange is not code for ….” She rolled her hand over in a plea for him to answer.

“Are you askingif I'm …gay?"

“Are you gay?”

“No, and for the record, I don’t think that strange is code for gay.”

“Of course not,” she said, with a smile. “My roommate’s gay and he’s not strange. Well, actually, he’s a little strange. Strange isn’t bad. I like strange.”

“Do you?” He asked, cracking a smile that felt creaky. Unused. He probably needed an oil can.

For a moment they sat, measuring each other. It was a far different vibe from the one they'd engaged in earlier.

“Yeah.” She set the swing in motion, scuffing one heel against the painted boards. She stared off into the distance at a stop signat the end of the street. Or maybe it was the Weeks's old Chrysler parked in their driveway. He couldn't tell.

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